Brainstorm

Van Morrison and Tom Waits make for near-perfect Friday night company.
Now if I could just get the mustachioed married guy out of my head, my evening would be complete.

The Opposite of Suprising

So I’m a little tipsy. I’ll cop to that, but I will not do so without allowing myself to venture a guess that its as much to do with the flattery-high as the 2 Jamesons I had.

Tonight was one of those nights that just unfold around you without you having to do much to encourage it. In fact, truth be told, I practically tried to keep it at bay (unsuccessfully, obviously)

I ended up at a friend’s birthday shindig at a bar and given that I knew no one but him , I was not expecting much of a night out. More of a cursory ‘howdydo?” and home again. Wrong.

I met a Supreme Court judge (very friendly and engaging and a part-time actor) a man who works for YES (thanked him for the various positions I have held that were funded y his agency AND got some helpful info from him for a client) and pro racquetball player and his lovely urban-planner wife just immigrated from England (she’s looking for work in Montreal. Have any? let me know) and last but not least a children’s book author.

This last man will be the focus of my post. He is charming. His is attractive. He is intelligent. He is flirtatious (yet appropriate) and he is… wait for it… you know whats coming… married.

*SIGH*

But wait! He is also, (and those who have read previous posts will be underwhelmed and bored by this next ‘revelation’) in (all together now) an open relationship.

*DOUBLE SIGH*

At least he doesn’t live in the Plateau or Mile End. That would just do me in.

And before you ask, the answer is no. No we didn’t exchange information. No, we didn’t make out. No, no , no, no, no. I’m (trying to be) done with that.

BUT

Yes, he did (as so many men seem to do) tell me his tale of woe (compelling if not unoriginal) and yes, he did tell me how good I smelled and how beautiful I am, and yes, our gazes may have lingered.

The real highlights of the evening though were his unintentional one liners. Example:

“You smell so good that I just have to trust you” and (relating what a woman had said to him in a bar earlier this week) ” I want to fuck that mustache off your face” (aside: Dear Hipsters, PLEASE don’t put stock in this, most of you look like child molesters).

So here I am at home trying desperately *not* to think about him. So far I’m failing, Big Time. ugh.

 

 

Diet

It starts now.

Not to sound all girlie and skinny=beautiful or anything, but recently I have increasingly started to dislike the way I look naked. I’m not comfortable in my clothes and I don’t feel pretty often enough for my liking. Ergo, healthy lifestyle starts NOW.

To help jump-start this I have come up with some guidelines. Not iron-clad (because as we all know, ‘Life happens’) but firm:

1) No eating after 8 PM if at all possible

2) No beer

3) Nothing that comes in silver paper or plastic that crackles (dark chocolate is NOT  junk food so long as its in moderation)

4) No white flour

5) Limited starches

 

Seems a good start, no?

 

 

Life Lesson $80.00

Maybe its my tendency to see more silver lining than cloud, or perhaps its the yoga training. Regardless I seem to have put a positive spin on what has been a rather maddening situation that has been unfurling these last few days.
Long story made relatively less long is this:
I was asked to submit a proposal for a feature article for a local mag
I do so. Detailed and complete with the fact that I had already attained permission to visit the organization I’d be writing about and to interview the founder/ED, the staff and even those who benefit from their services. I also provided guarantee of photos.
I’m told CONGRATULATIONS! We love it! The feature is yours! Lets talk details Monday.
Monday late afternoon the editor calls me and tells me I’ll be paid 80 dollars (WTF?! are you kidding?!) and that she wants final copy by Friday. (s’cuse me?)

I say “No” pointing out that the interviews alone will take me 2-3 hours. The editor says “What interviews? Just grab info from their website and rewrite it”. (*crickets*)

I say (because I am new to this and willing to roleplay as a doormat apparently) “Fine”

I put in two hours and then, because I realize that I can not do this with even an ounce of self-respect without talking to the org, chat with them by phone for about 30 min. I then spend another hour rewriting to include this new info.

[For those keeping score I'm now clocked at 3.5 hours, not including the emails and calls with the editor or my proposal.]

I am told to send it to the org for ‘approval’  (WTF squared). I do so Wednesday by 9:30. I send a copy to the editor as well.  The org sends it back on Thursday afternoon with that would make anyone with any journalistic integrity’s head spin. I decide to pick my battles and make the changes because while completely over the top and aggrandizing, they are not technically inaccurate and because at this point I had decided not to have my name published with the piece anyway and because I just wanted this all to go away.I dont hear from the editor till 11:30 Friday morning at wich point I get an email saying she can’t publish the piece because it needs editing. The editor writes this. The EDITOR. (sigh) OK. I write back asking for some clarification: length? content? font? i.e.: what the hell do you mean by ‘editing’. It’s now noon and on Monday she gave me a Friday 3 PM deadline.

I get an email back saying some of my sentences are run-ons and that my grammar is bad in spots. Hm. OK. I look it over. Yes, some sentences are long but they are properly written. At this point its a matter of stylistic choices and other than that I don’t see anything.

At this point I should point out that I have other clients. meetings. shit to do. I literally can not, (and quite frankly don’t want to) deal with this right now.

So now her I am on Saturday night and I have now spent an additional 30 minutes rewriting for the org and reviewing again for the editor for a grand total of 4 hours,of work,  5 if I count back and forth emails, calls and proposal writing. After speaking with my dad (a stand-up guy and former journalist) I decided that it’s not worth my stress. I did a final quick look over and sent it back to the editor with a brief email explaining that as the EDITOR I trusted her opinion and that she has permission to make any changes she feels necessary, including coming up with a new title (she scrapped 3 of mine).

I also told her not to associate my name with the piece and to kindly forward the $80.00 to my address.

I will sleep well tonight.

 

Oh? And the lesson? Over estimate my time and my value. Also, if my gut says “No”, LISTEN.

 

 

 

My Day (a post with bad grammar)

Today was a day.
It went something like this:

Wake up with a start at sunrise
Contemplate cleaning my room, say “Fuck it”, go back to bed
Half sleeping, turn on the radio. CBC obviously.
Cant fall back asleep
Say ‘Fuck It” again and get out of bed
Put away dishes.

Get to the café for 8:35 to prep for my 9 AM call that comes at 9:25 even though I told her I had to be somewhere at 10.
Postpone my 10 o’clock by email while on the phone.
Hustle to my 10 (now 10:15)
Have a relatively useless meeting.
Send follow-up emails related to that meeting that need immediate attention.

It is now 11:30
I have not had coffee. My sinuses are blocked and I look like a chapped version of Rudolf. I order the cheapest thing on the menu (grilled baguette with butter) and on a whim add cheese. I’m splurging today.

I get a call form my mother. She sounds well and its less trying than usual. For this I am thankful.

I start writing the article that’s due in 24 hours. I hate it. I start again, I hate that too.
I switch to another project and realize how much I want to fire that client. My work is interspersed with an email exchange so much further in the realm of babysitting than project management that it boggles the mind. I retreat to Facebook and Twitter.

I think about what sex would be like with the guy I’ve been making out with. I can’t seem to make it work in my head. What’s wrong with me that I cant even make my fantasies work?

I revisit the article. I still hate it but slog through it. Its hideous but an almost finished state of hideous and I consider this a small victory.

I am interrupted by the woman next to me wanting to plug into the socket under my table.
We make small talk. She is intense and earnest in a way that is both refreshing and off-putting. She has bright pink hair and in a geneticist specializing in poplar trees. She has a 17-year-old son whom she stresses she had ‘very young’. She is moving to Sweden in June. I couldn’t make this up.

I send of the second project and start a third. I’m know I know what needs doing but I can’t rally the brain cells. I dive in and draft a proposal anyway. It rings false and sales-pitchy but that’s what the industry calls for and I can’t tell if I’m more distressed by that fact or by the fact that it came so naturally to me to write that way.

I look up and see a good-looking man across the room. I bemoan the fact that I am so sick and look like death.

Its 3 PM. I order chicken quesadillas with hot sauce. I try to look cute eating them because now he has seen me see him and there is no way out of this glance-dance. The hot sauce scalds my mouth and hurts my chapped lips. I tear. Tearing up over quesadillas is decidedly not sexy. Fuck.

Once again I delve into Facebook and Twitter. I forward some links of interest to friends who might benefit from them. I look at the hideous article again. I feel an overwhelming desire to scream.

The pink-haired young scientist mom next to me engages in what will turn out to be a 30 minute long and exceedingly personal phone conversation with a man named Doug who I ascertain is her ex. She talks at him about his feelings and motives like she is Dr. Phil. She uses terms like “my reality’ and ‘your insecurities’. I knew there was something weird about her. When all attempts to block her out while I try to edit become fruitless I plug in. The Be Good Tanyas seem to lower my blood pressure.

I get a call from my dearest friend in Toronto. She has a lump in her breast. She is not worried. She’s calling me to bide the time while waiting at the walk-in clinic for a referral. I am happy to hear her voice and her calm is infectious. I too am not worried.

Its 4:25. I get a response to one of the two urgent emails I sent at 11. In it I’m told to make sure I hurry getting back to him. Seriously? Fuck you. Five hours to reply to a simple question when I know you are at your desk is not OK.

I update my invoicing, reply to some personal mail and pack up.

Got home and slacked by watching a movie. Quick dinner then more article wrestling. This time armed with a drink. I become worried that the drink helped and briefly contemplate alcoholism as professional development.

I have an hour-long overdue chat with another girlfriend in TO.

I sit down to write this.

Have Skills, Will Starve.

I’m skilled, I am. I good at what I do and I like doing it (most days) but I just can’t seem to rally enough hours of work to make a living. I have some savings I can dip into, but as one who was raised for many years just shy of the poverty line (outward appearances notwithstanding), I hate the idea of eating into my padding. This leaves me with the imminent reality of a cafe job in the very very near future. I don’t mind it so much but I’m frustrated that when I leaped into my new adventure (read: freelancing & yoga teacher training) after a few years of being very comfortable but unhappy, that somehow the universe didn’t decide that it was gonna acknowledge and reward my bravery with a bit of a better paved road.

OK, pity party over. And out.

ZZZ

Timing

I started out the year wanting to post a Happy Moment every day, but as I continue my Post a Day in 20011 project I’m finding that I often have other things I would rather blog about and that after my HM I no longer have the time and/or energy to do those. That said, I am reworking my commitment to stay at a post a day but not necessarily a Happy Moment.

Today I would like to write about my ‘interesting’ evening last night. I was at a bar with my (male) BFF. A couple of pints, the end of the game, a laugh, the usual.  At one point these two guys joined us which was nice as I was just bemoaning my super non-existent love life. The one I originally thought had potential was crazy. The second guy was not (!) He also had a British accent (!!) He was also bright (!!!) Respectful (!!!!) and capable of carrying on a conversation (!!!!!) Oh, and the piece de resistance? He’s an internationally acclaimed (read: un-broke) visual artist (!!!!!!)

[NB: for those of you keeping score at home, that's 6 exclamation points so far]

The night rolled on and our heads got closer. We were engrossed in our own conversation about museums and travel. His hand found his was to my knee. I didn’t move it. It was nice. Then, after a few bits of well-placed flattery, he worked in to conversation, with his had still on my leg, that he has a girlfriend that he loves very much and doesn’t plan on leaving.

 

*crickets*

 

Uh… OK, buy you might want to reconsider that hand on my thigh then, ya buddy?

What the hell is it with partnered men these days?

Married? Check

Live-in girlfriend? Check

They all seem to find their way to me.  *eye roll*

 

High School: The Sequal

I feel like im pulling up to a border crossing. I always get the same feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I’m gonna get busted for something, even though I have nothing to hide. Its the presupposed guilt that gets me every time. Its built-in and I am one of those who can’t shake it.

I feel this way now, accused (with reasonable cause) of doing something I did not do. The person providing  the evidence and emotionally frail individual who was drunk at the time.

Her statements have likely lost me a friendship with a woman I like very very much, not to mention my reputation. Getting caught with your hand ion the cookie jar sucks, but being grounded for eating cookies you never ate sucks way way more. I feel helpless. I also feel like I can’t reach out and be the friend I want to be because it might look suspicious or, what may be closer to the (sad and painful) truth is that the woman I want to reach out to doesn’t want me to because she no longer trusts me. I could actually kill the one who spoke up right now. She likely overheard my hurt friend(the accuser) speaking with her friends and rather than admit to eavesdropping (or perhaps because she was so drunk she doesn’t recall where she heard what) she’s saying it came from me. I don’t even know half the information I am said to have revealed . How could I have told her something I don’t know? Seriously.

I want so much to talk to S about this an am worried he’ll now distance himself in loyalty to the hurt one’s hubby. This fucking sucks. I tell you, no matter how old we get, some of us still act like high school kids. It’s the last time I listen to anyone’s problems. If getting accused of spreading stories is the result, I’d rather not know anything at all. Let them all deal with their issues on their own .